


The only thing that made sense

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern, Discussion of Violence, F/M, Past Spousal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:26:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then he noticed the envelope sitting on the phone table. It was addressed to him, and when he opened it, he found Sansa's engagement ring - a trilogy, but the middle stone was a <em>blue</em> diamond, to match her eyes - and her wedding and eternity rings.</p><p>She <em>couldn't</em> be. Could she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The only thing that made sense

**Author's Note:**

> This is a weird one. Sorry.
> 
> For the gameofships Spoilers Ahoy challenge day 3 - "betrayal"

Joffrey fucking  _hated_ work, but he put up with it because hey, the money was good, and it wasn't as if anyone other than his mother would let him pretty much make his own hours, was it?

So he hated work, and that was fine, because the money really, really was good, and that meant he could afford the big house in the suburbs  _and_ the holiday home in Provence. He'd never been too sure about Provence himself, but Sansa loved it, loved all of France, so he'd agreed when they'd been thinking about buying a foreign property. He'd been thinking Ibiza or Ayia Napa, but Sansa had pointed out that considering how hectic their social life was at home, maybe an escape was the way to go.

It'd been a toss up between Provence and Lake Como - literally a toss up, he'd flipped a coin and Provence had won. 

Things had been strained between them the last eighteen months, he realised suddenly. Sansa had been distant, withdrawn rather than her usual quiet self, and he wondered if maybe a couple of weeks in Provence would do her good. Mum wouldn't mind him taking the time off, and he was sure Sansa's business partners would be able to manage without her - he'd call Cella later, ask her to say it to the others. It'd be  _fine._  

They'd be able to fix everything with a few weeks in Provence, just the two of them. It was usually the two of them and some friends, Cella and her latest girlfriend or Tom and Robin, or even some of the uncles or some of Sansa's brothers or her sister. But if it was just him and her, just Joff-and-Sansa, they could get back to how things should be. They could figure out why he'd been so mad with her all the time lately, and they could work out why she was so  _sad._

He hated seeing her sad. She never seemed to believe it anymore, but he  _did,_ and he hated seeing her hurt. It was just that sometimes it was the only way to get a reaction out of her, or it was the only way he could see of reacting. Sometimes, hurting her was the only thing that made  _sense._

Three weeks in Provence, maybe a month. That'd set everything right. Sansa had always loved Provence in the spring.

 

* * *

 

Their house was in the same area as his parents' and her parents' and his grandfather's and her grandfather's. It was a good area, an  _old_ good area. The cherry blossoms out front had been what sold Sansa on their particular house, though. She loved pretty things, and there weren't many things prettier than a cherry blossom in bloom. 

That's what Sansa said, anyways. Joff wasn't much of an authority on pretty things.

The house was beautiful, though, he knew that - they'd painted the fence themselves just last summer, and Sansa had spent half an hour scrubbing the white gloss paint out of his hair after he knocked his head on the underside of the tin and spilled the whole thing all over himself - and he knew that Sansa loved it. He'd given her total free rein on it, and had handed over the cheque book so she cold do whatever the hell she wanted without having to worry about overwhelming her credit card.

No, debit card. Sansa hated being in debt, so she never used a credit card.

The front hall was a triumph, even Mum had admitted that - Sansa had paid an absolute fortune for the polished cedar hardwood floor and matching staircase, but they were fucking worth it, because they were fucking  _magnificent._ He'd once told Sansa that he felt like a king every morning, walking down them in the ridiculous monogrammed silk robe Mum had given him for his birthday last year, and she'd laughed and asked if that meant she was his queen.

"Who else would I have?" he'd asked, and then later that day he'd slapped her because she'd fallen asleep over some sketches and let their dinner burn. 

The hall was empty except for one of Sansa's overnight bags, the one he'd brought home from that business trip to Hong Kong just after they were married - it was ridiculously cheesy and obviously made just for tourists, but Sansa  _did_ love pretty things and the dark blue silk stitched with silver cherry blossoms had matched the colour scheme from the wedding perfectly. 

It wasn't until he stepped under the stairs to hang up his coat and kick off his shoes that he noticed the suitcases - not the good quilted Chanel ones, but the same serviceable navy-blue ones Sansa'd brought on their honeymoon, the ones she'd had since forever, since before they were married and she'd started letting him buy her things.

Then he noticed the envelope sitting on the phone table. It was addressed to him, and when he opened it, he found Sansa's engagement ring - a trilogy, but the middle stone was a  _blue_ diamond, to match her eyes - and her wedding and eternity rings.

She  _couldn't_ be. Could she?

 

* * *

 

Their bedroom was empty when he ran upstairs, and so was the en suite and the study, and Sansa's workroom, too, which was  _extra_ strange.

When he said empty, he really meant it - his clothes were still in his wardrobe, but Sansa's was empty. Well, empty of everything except the things he'd bought her, the gown she'd worn to the New Year's Ball at the National Gallery, the diamond earrings he'd given her for their anniversary just last month,  _they_ were still in their places, but her favourite shoes, the first Jimmy Choos she'd ever bought with her own money, they were gone.

She never wore them anymore, so if she was just going away for a couple of days, why would they be gone?

He ran down the stairs as fast as he could, nearly slipping (why had he bothered taking his shoes off?!) and only barely catching himself on the bannister, and then skidded sideways into the music room.

The big photo of Sansa and him the night of their engagement party, the one that sat on top of the piano, was turned face down, and the lid of the piano was shut with the key sticking out of the lock. Sansa usually wore the key on a long chain around her neck, because it was pretty, all silvery curlicues and little sapphire details, and for some reason it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up to see that stupid key in the music room without Sansa.

The living room was empty, and her big special editions of _Pride & Prejudice _and all the rest were missing from the bookcases along the south wall. How had he missed that? She couldn't have taken everything that was missing just today - shit, he was home  _early,_ he'd only been gone maybe six or seven hours,  _and_ she was supposed to have been going into work today!

"Sansa?" he called, checking the downstairs loo (empty), and the snug (empty, and the painting her cousin had given them as a wedding present was gone, too), and finally the kitchen.

She clicked her compact shut, tucked it into her bag, and then stood up.

"You can't be surprised, Joff," she said calmly, pulling the strap of her bag up her arm and settling it on her shoulder. "You  _can't_ be."

But he was, just like he was surprised when Dad walked out on them when he was fifteen, when Uncle Jaime walked out when he was seventeen, just like he always was when someone walked out on him.

"Yeah," he managed. "I kind of fucking am."

She laughed this weird sort of angry laugh that he'd never heard before - Sansa didn't get  _angry,_ not ever, not even with her sister when Arya was being a brat.

"You- You're not a stupid man, Joff. How on  _earth_ did you not see this coming? After everything that's happened in the last eighteen months-"

She bit her lip and looked away, looked down at the dark granite counter and tapped her short fingernails against it. He moved towards her - maybe, maybe if he held her, she'd see that this was ridiculous. Maybe? 

"Please don't touch me," she whispered, still not looking at him. "I'm leaving, Joff."

"Just for a while," he reasoned. "We've both been through the wringer, and maybe a couple of weeks apart if just the ticket."

"No," she said, finally looking back at him, tipping her head up to meet his eyes. He'd been expecting tears, sadness, something,  _anything,_ but there was only determination. He'd always loved Sansa's eyes, but he'd never seen them like this before. "I've filed for divorce, Joff. Aunt Lysa helped me file the papers."

"Isn't that a bit extreme?" he choked out, ignoring the way she stepped away from him and catching her around the arms - she was wearing long sleeves, which he knew she didn't like, but he'd lost his temper the day before yesterday and she was still healing up - and holding on tight. "Sansa, please, we love one another-"

"I haven't loved you in a  _long_ time, Joff," she said sharply. "Not since- Not in a long time. Now let me go."

"Never," he said, distantly aware that his voice was rising but not able to stop it. "I won't let you leave me, Sansa, I _won't_."

Surprising him, she did something she hadn't done while his temper was up in years - she gently tugged his hand off her arm, and then pressed her hand to his cheek.

"When was the last time you remember us being happy, Joff?" she asked. "Now, let me go, because if you don't Willas will call my father and he'll be here in ten minutes to  _make_ you let me go."

Now that she said it, he couldn't remember - a lie, he knew, it was eighteen months ago - so he let go of her, and stepped back, and didn't leave the kitchen as she clicked in and out of the front hall in her Jimmy Choos and heaved her suitcases and overnight bag out to her car.

He went for the wine rack when he heard her pull out of the drive, and then for the drinks press when he realised she really had meant it, because she'd left the envelope with her rings in it right where _he'd_ left it.

 

* * *

 

The whiskey had probably soaked right through to the plaster, but Joff didn't care. It was after midnight and his wife, his Sansa, had walked out the door not twelve hours ago.

He cried for half an hour, curled up under the windowseat with a nearly-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him, and then it hit him.

Why the  _hell_ had Sansa had  _Willas Tyrell_ primed to call Ned for her?

 

* * *

 

He stopped by work - Sansa's work - three days later, after Tom'd come over and helped him tidy up the house and dump all the stuff he'd completely ruined, and after his knuckles had healed up a bit. He'd thumped the wall a couple of times in sheer frustration, and while they still stung like hell at least the scabs weren't cracking anymore.

She didn't look surprised to see him, but he didn't miss the way the others sort of drifted closer, even _Cella_. Harry Hardyng sat on the edge of her workbench, for God's sake, and Marg Tyrell leaned over the back of Sansa's chair, raising an eyebrow at him as if they were sixteen again and she was daring him to kiss Sansa for the first time.

"I'd like to speak to my wife," he grit out, stuffing his hands in his pockets and trying to keep a hold of his temper. "Alone."

"Maybe now isn't a good time, Joff," Cella said quietly, slipping her hand into his like she had since she was just barely a year old and he was three and she was learning to walk by holding onto him. "C'mon, Joff, let's go, yeah? You can buy me lunch-"

"I need to talk to my  _wife_ ," he snapped, jerking away from Cella and stepping towards Sansa.

Harry's hand caught him in the middle of the chest.

"Listen to your sister, Baratheon," he said. "Not today."

 

* * *

 

"Sanny," Arya said firmly. "You're doing the right thing."

Sansa sighed and stirred another sugar into her hot chocolate. She usually only took two, but she hadn't slept last night, so she needed the kick.

"I know, kiddo," she agreed. "Doesn't make it any easier."

The last of the bruises had healed up nicely, so she was wearing a sleeveless shift dress today, a pretty pink one because she was  _sick_ of always wearing blue. Joff had always preferred her in blue, had given her sky blue diamonds and royal blue sapphires and navy blue lace and turquoise blue silk and dark blue bruises.

She was never, ever going to wear blue again. 

"Hey," Arya said. "Hey, Sanny, look at me."

She looked at Arya, who was frowning.

"You  _are_ doing the right thing," she said again. "I just wish it hadn't taken something so fucking awful to make you realise it."

Not everyone knew what had happened - Arya, Joff, Mum and Dad, Cersei, that was about it - but they would. She knew Joff would drag her through the divorce courts, and she knew everyone would want to know everything (all in the name of supporting her, of course), so everyone would know everything.

"I hate this, Arry," she said miserably. "Why didn't I stop him sooner?"

"Because he's an abusive piece of shit who beat you into submission for the last four years," Arya said. "And if he tries to ambush you at work again, I'll fucking beat  _him_ into submission."

 

* * *

 

Mum had done her room up since she'd moved out, but it was still  _basically_ the same. There were still shelves full of books, and shelves full of CDs and vinyls, and her wardrobe was still stuffed to bursting with clothes she hadn't worn since she was seventeen.

She could still fit into them, but even though she was only twenty-five she felt like it had been a million years since this room had really been  _hers._

Her first day off after moving out of Joff's house, she bought a roll of bin bags, pulled on her oldest, grottiest jeans and t-shirt, and emptied the wardrobe. Then she sorted through her suitcases and bags and all the stuff she'd brought from Joff's, which filled another four bin bags, and she had Dad help her carry them down to the car so she could dump them in the donations bin at the recycling centre after lunch.

Then she'd cried for a good half an hour before going for a shower. She had a meeting with Aunt Lysa after lunch, too, so she got ready for that and very determinedly didn't run her thumb over the narrow part of her left ring finger.

Instead, she pressed her hand to the big, ugly scar on her belly, and blow-dried her hair as quickly as she could so she'd have enough time to allow for traffic between the recycling centre and Aunt Lysa's office.

 

* * *

 

She cried again when she went to the hospital to collect her medical records.

"He- he used to say he didn't  _mean_ it," she gulped as Lysa helped her sip a bottle of water. "He used to say it was my fault, that if I just tried harder he wouldn't have to- he hurt me, Lysa! He hurt me all the time and said he  _loved_ me and I just  _took_ it, like some stupid idiot with  _shit_ for brains!"

Lysa set the bottle of water aside and pulled Sansa tight into her arms. Sansa had gone to Lysa eighteen months ago because her aunt, more than anyone else she knew, could  _understand._ Lysa's demons were more mental and emotional than physical, like Sansa's were for the most part, but they were there all the same, and it was weirdly comforting to have someone as fucked up as herself to lean on.

So Sansa cried, her aunt crouched awkwardly in front of her, her medical records on the seat to her right and a bottle of water on the seat to her left, and afterwards, she felt much better. Not entirely better - she wasn't sure she'd ever be entirely better, especially not while she was still Mrs. Sansa Baratheon, but a lot better all the same.

She hadn't really let herself cry since she'd woken up after falling down the stairs- no, after being  _pushed_ down the stairs, and she was starting to see how silly that might have been.

"I think I've been having an affair," she said as they drove back to Lysa's office from the hospital. "Like, I haven't been sleeping with anyone, or purposely hiding it from Joff, but I think I've been having an affair. Can you have emotional affairs?"

"Petyr was having an unrequited one with your mother the entire time we were together," Lysa said, flicking off her indicator and ripping up the gears as quickly as she could. "It's very much possible, sweetheart - just be careful this isn't a rebound. You've spent a long time trying to be in love with Joffrey, Sansa. Don't make my mistakes."

Lysa considered her mistakes to be refusing to see her husband as anything but a security blanket for her and Alayne until Robin was born, but Sansa kind of got that. She also got what Lysa meant, though, which was a large part of why she was living at home instead of looking too hard for a place of her own - Mum and Dad were an active deterrent to getting too involved with anyone knew, so she figured she might even hang on until the divorce was finalised and the dust had settled. They wouldn't mind, especially not now they knew the truth about everything.

Honestly, if what had happened hadn't happened, Sansa didn't think she'd have left Joff. Part of her did still love him, because she knew he hadn't always been this way. She could still remember him as he'd been when they were seventeen and dancing around one another, or while they were at college and he'd always waited for her at the end of the day if it was raining so he could give her a lift back to her house.

She missed him more than loved him, now. Joff hadn't been _Joff_ in years, but Sansa hadn't wanted to see it.

"Yeah," she said at last. "Hey, Lysa, can I borrow Robin tomorrow?"

 

* * *

 

"I'm not spying on Joff through Tom for you," was the first thing Robin said when he sat down across from her, but Sansa just rolled her eyes.

"I don't want you to," she promised him, pushing an unsweetened latte across the table to him. "I just want to know if Tom's said anything, you know, significant."

"Like about Joff trashing the house? Yeah, he said that," Robin agreed, sipping his coffee while Sansa tried to digest that. Joff had never been as into the house as she was, but he'd still loved it - he'd loved that it had been entirely theirs, just like the house in Provence was, and he'd loved that it had been something she'd done. He'd always loved the things she'd made (well, except the most important thing, but that was why she was here and he wasn't, right?).

"When?"

"The night you moved out," Robin said, stealing some of her scone and shrugging. "And after he went to see you at work, he tried to get in to see Will Tyrell - apparently he's blaming him for you leaving. Blaming Will, I mean."

Sansa sighed - Joff had always been so quick to blame other people, mostly her, for his failures. It shouldn't have surprised her that he'd decided she was having an affair, especially when she wasn't entirely sure that she hadn't been.

It had just, it'd been so  _thrilling,_ in a quiet sort of way. Sansa hadn't had any friends that Joff hadn't expressly approved outside of the work gang in a long time, and knowing how much he'd hate Willas had just... It had been good to do something he'd hated, just because she'd wanted to do it.

Like her tattoo. She'd had it done as soon as she'd recovered from her "fall," and Joff had called it sentimental. She'd called him cold.

 

* * *

 

To say Joff was surprised by his father's sudden re-entry into his life following Sansa's departure would have been an understatement.

He'd been in the same room as his dad exactly twice since Mum became a single parent, once at Renly's funeral and then in the hospital after Cella's accident.

"You fucked up," Dad said. "But that's as much my fault as it is yours. C'mere, lad."

 


End file.
